The money arrived. ₹2,50,000. A quarter of a million rupees, landing in the Patel Holdings account with the sterile finality of a bank transfer. There was no fanfare, no envelope of cash, just a line item on a statement: Transfer from Investment Portfolio.
To Lina, it was a miraculous infusion. She immediately began drafting payments for the stack of invoices that had been gathering dust—the outstanding balance to Ms. Mehta, the raised rent on the warehouse, the bill for the new plastic injection molds for the Model B. The financial pressure, a constant, suffocating presence for over a year, evaporated in an afternoon.
To Harsh, it felt like a blood transfusion from a phantom. The relief was undeniable, but it was tainted. This wasn't earnings from sweat; it was a withdrawal from a secret trust fund built on foreknowledge.
He deployed the capital with a cold, strategic efficiency that was new to him. He was no longer a desperate scavenger; he was a commander with fresh reserves.
"Deepak," he said, pointing to a catalog from a German machine parts supplier. "Order two of the high-precision soldering stations. Not the cheap local imitations. The best. And hire five more assemblers. Train them properly. I want a third production line operational in a month."
Deepak looked stunned. "Bhaiya, the cost—"
"Is handled," Harsh cut him off, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Just make it happen."
He turned to Sanjay. "The Infotel order is our reference. Use it. I want three more corporate clients of that size by the end of the quarter. Offer them a discount on their first order. We can afford it now."
The sudden shift from austerity to aggressive expansion sent a jolt through the small company. The mood lifted, but it was mixed with confusion and a faint unease. Where had this money come from? Harsh offered no explanation, only commands. The architect was building again, but the bricks felt different.
The first crack appeared with Sanjay. Riding high on the Infotel success, he finally landed a meeting with a major national chain of electronics retailers, "Bharat Electrics." It was the big break, the door to the mass market they had once dreamed of.
He returned from the meeting not triumphant, but subdued.
"They loved the Model B," Sanjay reported, slumping into a chair. "The price point, the quality, the story. They're ready to place an order. A big one. Five hundred units to start, with a option for two thousand more by the year's end."
It was the kind of news that should have had them cheering. Instead, Deepak and Lina looked at Sanjay's despondent face, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"And?" Harsh prompted.
"And," Sanjay sighed, "their terms. They want a 15% 'display and promotion' fee. They want 120-day payment terms. And they want exclusivity. If we sell to them, we can't sell to any other retailer in the country."
The terms were predatory, designed to squeeze small manufacturers into dependency. It was the exact opposite of everything they had fought for.
Before, the decision would have been a painful but clear "no." Now, Harsh hesitated. The ghost money had changed the calculus. Could they absorb the long payment terms with their new capital? Could they afford to walk away from that volume?
"We'll consider it," Harsh said, his voice neutral. "Run the numbers, Lina. See if the volume makes sense despite the terms."
A silence fell over the room. Sanjay stared at Harsh, disbelief in his eyes. "Consider it? Bhaiya, this is what we said we'd never do! This is Goyal from Lamington Road, but on a national scale! They'll own us!"
"This is business, Sanjay," Harsh replied, a defensive edge in his voice. "Sometimes you have to be pragmatic to get to the next level."
"The next level of what?" Sanjay shot back, his voice rising. "Of being someone else's slave? We have a good thing with the corporate orders. We have our dignity!"
The word "dignity" hung in the air, an accusation. The ghost money, intended to liberate them, was now tempting them into a new kind of bondage.
That night, the broker called again. His voice was breathless. "Sir! ACC is up 40% this week alone! Your holdings are now at ₹18,00,000! The Bull is unstoppable! We must increase our exposure! This is a golden tide!"
Harsh listened, the number washing over him. Eighteen lakhs. It was an absurd, almost fictional amount. He could walk away from Bharat Electrics and their predatory terms without a second thought. He could fund the company for years on this phantom wealth.
But that was the trap. The more he relied on the ghost, the less the real, hard-won success of Patel Holdings mattered. The Infotel order, the profit from the trucks—it all started to feel like a hobby, a quaint side project compared to the dizzying riches of the market.
He ended the call and looked around his office. At the sample of the Model B. At the logistics schedule pinned to the wall. At the team photos—a younger, more hopeful version of himself with Deepak and Sanjay outside the Bhuleshwar alcove.
He had made a pact to use the ghost to protect the architect. But the ghost was proving to be a jealous partner. It didn't want to be a shield; it wanted to be the foundation.
He had reached the next level, just as he'd wanted. But as he stood there, surrounded by the tangible results of his struggle, he felt a terrifying distance opening up between the man he was and the fortune he was amassing in the shadows.
The price of the pact was no longer just moral. It was the very soul of the thing he was trying to build.
(Chapter End)